The Fall of the House of Malfoy
by dreamewaever
Summary: Of a Villian who wanted to be the Hero. Some fairy tales don't have a happy ending.
1. All Who Come Bearing Apples Are Not Evil

**Of A Villain And His Prince**

_:Part One:In Which All Who Come Bearing Apples Are Not Evil._

There was once a magical kingdom far away, where sorrow was never an ending and where magical creatures roamed the lands alongside both man and fairy; a land in which enchanted forests whispered ancient tales of love, greed, hope and despair; a place where curses that were cast in the name of revenge survived centuries unbroken, whilst some blessings saw others bind an endless love in a single perfect rose, long after its object had faded away. It was a place in which many a young prince rode towards the hidden lands of the east, in search of glory and high adventure; in which princesses of unsurpassed beauty lay captive under spells and enchantments, dreaming of a time when their princes would return from the lands of the east and rescue them from themselves.

In this land, where fortunes were made and lost as fast as the wind blew, there lived a young lord with hair as white as snow and lips as pink as the first spring rose. He lived in a world where motion never ceased, each day bringing a hidden jewel of knowledge for him to discover or new games for him to invent. He lived in a magnificent castle with seventeen turrets, rooms for every mood in which he found himself, and even more rooms for the moods he did not yet know he could feel.

All day long, the young lord ran in rolling green fields that had no end and climbed the trees of the surrounding forests that were so tall, they cut patterns into the sky. As a dying sun placed its final strokes of purples and pinks on the sky, he would climb into the strong arms of his papa and recount all his daily adventures, before watching the first stars wink merrily at him to sleep from the safety of his mother's warm lap.

The young lord was as happy as a boy who had not yet seen seven summers could be. Love softened the unforgiving stone walls of his home, his mother's cool kisses could vanish away any hurts whilst his father's silver laughter could mend a pride that, moments before, had lain damaged beyond repair.

All in the castle loved him dearly, trying all they could to make the dimples appear in his round cheeks. Deloutier, the butler, would show him hidden rooms in which to play games, the maids would feed him the tastiest sweets and even the hot tempered, sharp tongued cook oft took the time to spin him tales of what the world was like in the days when she had but one chin. He was never in want of anything, a hundred arms reaching out to do his every bidding. But one day, whilst perched on the loving arms of an old oak, he discovered that all in his delightful world was not right.

He had been amusing himself by playing with a young deer, running amongst the strong trees until the shadows had slowly begun creeping up on him. Suddenly another young deer had bound into the clearing, looking for its friend.

"You must come now, for you are wanted." it insisted, playfully nudging its brother with its nose. The young lord was dismayed, for he had enjoyed his day in the forest and did not want it to end.

"Stay, friend!" he cried. "Stay here a moment longer!" But the deer gravely shook his head.

"I will be missed," he said. "Perhaps another time, my lord." And with that, he gave one great bound and disappeared into the shadows of the wood, his brother following close behind. The forest became very quiet after they had gone, and the young lord tried to think of a way to amuse himself until a servant was sent to fetch him home. He tried catching butterflies, but they were too quick for his small hands. He tried building a castle of rocks, but they were too heavy for him to carry. The very forest that had once held innumerable pleasures suddenly became cold and unforgiving.

The young lord seated himself on the warm ground and tried not to cry, for the princes in the maid's tales never cried when they were left all alone. A sudden feeling of sorrow possessed his small being and his small mouth began to pout. His throat began to dry and his stomach began to writhe like a pit full of snakes. In dismay he looked down at his now shaking hands.

"What can this be?" the young lord wondered to himself. "Perhaps I have eaten something that has not agreed with me." But even his young mind knew this was not the case. "Perhaps I have been poisoned!" And so the troubled mind of the young lord began spinning wild possibilities, each more unlikely than the rest. He asked the bluebird had been with him that afternoon.

"Come, Bluebird!" he cried, "Can you not say what ails me so?"

But it just shook its feathers and flew away, singing, "I know not, my lord!"

He asked the elm trees, for their wisdom was great, but they shook their limbs and sadly whispered, "We cannot say. We cannot say."

Was this because he had fallen into the old oak table the previous evening? Was it because he had lied to his nurse when she asked him if he had eaten any chocolates before his tea? Or was he, the young lord thought in panic, was he _dying_! The young lord was very troubled at this. How could he be dying? He had not yet met his Lady, he had not yet learnt of any quests or unfulfilled prophecies; he had not, now with a trembling lip, rued the hours he spent ignoring his lessons, or learnt how to wield a sword. He was aghast. Without being able to use a sword, how would he smite down the evil that came unto him and save his lady love? The thought was too much for him and he burst into tears, hugging his cloak tightly around himself.

"What be wrong, young sahr?" a wizened voice asked.

He looked up and saw not one of his serfs, but an old lady covered in shawls, with the slanted eyes of one of the South. Warnings against such untrustworthy folk rose into his mind, unbidden, and the wary lord wiped away his tears and prepared to leave. But as he looked into her large, kind, dark eyes that were marked by the gentle hands of Time, he could not help but forget all the tales of theft, kidnap and murder that clung like a lover to the caravans of the Gypsies.

"I th-think I may be dying!" he sobbed, with the heartfelt grief of one who has no hope left in his young life. The gypsy woman seemed slightly taken aback at this show of emotion, not the least shocked at the reason for it.

"Why ye look parfectly spry to mine old eyes!" she exclaimed.

"Ah, it is but only a few hours since I became afflicted." He grieved. The old woman let out a tiny sigh of relief before settling down on the huge fallen oak he was on.

"And what gave ye this mortal blow, young master?"

The young lord took a deep breath and painfully began recounting a tale of his afternoon that was as embellished as an imaginative young mind could make it. The old woman smiled to herself under her colourful scarves, her wise mind sifting through tales of robbers stealing his friend away to use as ransom, and her eyes softened in pity as she saw the young lord for the lonely young boy that he was.

"Well, young master," she tied another scarf tighter around her arm. "I'm not just any o' the Wandering folk. I've also got special healing powers." She felt the young lad squirm with curiosity as she pulled a basket of ripe apples towards her. "These be my special apples that have been magicked to cure anyone who eats them." she continued. She felt his eyes on the basket and smiled to herself again.

"I- I don't suppose I could have one, could I?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh, no." His face fell and he stared moodily into the woods, preparing himself for his ultimate demise. "Oh, no, they be far too valuable for an old woman like me to give one to ye. Ye must grant me a favour if ye wish for an apple."

The young lord creased his head in worry. 'Good will is a myth', he remembered his papa saying, 'The world is full of people who would wish to do you harm, my son.' She could easily be a hag who ate children, or she could be after a great sum of money. But he was _dying_.

"Alright." He took a deep breath and began again, remembering his manners. "I shall grant unto thee, good lady, one wish in exchange for a gift of a single magical apple."

The woman smiled and passed him one. "My wish, young sir, " she said, "is that every afternoon, ye shall come to this very clearing and keep my young daughter company until the Wanderers must leave again." She saw the relieved, almost disappointed look that settled across his fine features. "She has been quite lonely of late, and in need of a companion."

"And is this all you ask of me?" There was definitely a disappointment in his tone. She smiled again, for after seven sons, she knew how the mind of a young boy worked.

"Ah, but ye must swear to protect her from any harm that may befall her," she continued gravely. "And no one must ever know of this arrangement."

The young lord brightened and with a solemn bow, replied, "I swear," before returning back to his castle, his heart singing at his new found quest.

"Have your lessons put that wide smile on your face, son?" his papa asked, removing his ebony cloak before throwing the young lord into the air and catching him again.

"No, sir," he replied. "I have received my first quest, which I must not tell you about, as it is a secret, and I must begin tomorrow to fight any villains that come."

A shadow passed across his father's face as he seated his son on his knee and rang for the young lord's maid.

He frowned at the girl "I thought I ordered no more tales of mouth to be told in this manor."

"B-but my Lord – it was just one simple little fair-"

"There must be no more tales in this house. Is that understood?" His voice was quiet but rang with power that would not be disobeyed. The nursery maid nodded, frightened, and backed out of the room. The lord gave a heavy sigh and turned his awe struck son back towards him.

"You must not believe what you hear, my son," he said, a sadness filling his eyes. "Heroes and villains only exist in idle minds." His silver hair flowed about his face glowing in the moonlight, and in that moment the young boy could only see the angel seated before him.

"No," he continued, "villains are simply men who do what others are too frightened to do."

He smiled at his son and lifted him up to his bed. "But even villains must sleep." He winked.

The young boy was suddenly exhausted and closed his eyes. "But I'm to be a hero, not a villain." he murmured sleepily before drifting off.

"No," whispered his father. "You aren't."


	2. In Which the Villian Reflects

_Part Two: In Which The Villain Reflects._

"No," she whispered, tracing a painted nail along his thigh, "You aren't."

The man repressed a shudder of disgust as he looked down at her carefully arranged face, her coy smile, the soft swell of her breast. Many a man would have loved to have been the object of her attentions, but looking closer, one could see the spidery lines, so cleverly concealed, running all over her face; the calculating gaze; the thin lips; the gaunt face of a woman who had sold away her hope and now lived only to end each day.

He waited for the shudder to pass, carefully closing his eyes to the world. Let them think he was enjoying this, being surrounded by women, maintaining this illusion of a maddening calm that belied an unstoppable power. Another soft hand snaked up his calf, the pale hand glaringly bright against his pitch black robes.

"I wore the gown you sent to my mother, my lord."

They were so sharp. So calculating. He had sent no gown, certainly not one that was so low cut it bordered on the obscene, but the hint of a preference had set the others on edge. Each was willing to strike down a friend, if doing so would raise them in his esteem. Each of these adoring faces, he mused to himself, masked a soul that had aged far beyond its years.

But it would all be hidden. Hidden so craftily that even a most intimate friend could be fooled by their soft words and warm touches. Another wave of repulsion threatened to overwhelm his mask. They were all snakes, circling ever closer to him. Hoping to lure him into their traps until he was so far gone that he wouldn't notice the painted coils tightening around his neck. He cast a cold gaze at the simpering face that rested near his elbow, forcing himself to lift the corner of his lips in a smirk of approval.

They must have been girls, once, must have had secrets that lives did not depend on, had innocent pleasures that cost only time. Another girl suddenly laughed in his mind, her hair burning bright, her eyes shining in secret amusement. The man started slightly before steeling himself, the hundreds of eyes that watched his every breath, barely able to notice his shift before he seemed to once again become stone. That girl had long since gone. Those days had been stolen from him and buried deep in the past, by a world that did not care for the dreams of silver haired young child lords.

A thick coil of anger rose within him, making his cold grey eyes flash a sudden burning white. The room as flinched as one, the hands in his hair shaking, the frenzied whisperings in the corner faltering before softly returning. The lord look about his room, lips etched into a thin frown. They were all here, wearing robes of raven black that mirrored his own. The great hall of his castle stood high and forbidding, ceiling disappearing into shadows. A cold draught blew down from its heights, leaving a chill that no amount of marble fireplaces could warm. He took in the faces of his court. The scurry of short, tall, rich, poor imposing figures that muttered to themselves, trying to keep from drowning in the pools of deceit that flooded his polished his floors.

They all paraded before him, humming with quiet intensity, but he knew they were still watching him closely, stealing glances that skittered away as he met them. Strangers, he mused, forcing his fingers to thread idly through the golden locks of the woman seated at the base of his throne. They were all strangers in this room. Harsh critics that would claw at any weakness he showed. Suddenly the lord felt the weight of the silent stares push down on him, causing his heart to beat faster in his chest. He had to leave. Go somewhere where these spies could not watch him.

He stood up, pulling his black velvet cape from the grasp of the painted women. The quiet hum was instantly snuffed out, the soft click of his boots the only noise in the room. He swept by, looking at no one, walking in strong measured paces along a path that was cleared ahead of him. His page boy, fool that he was, realised late the intentions of his master and rushed forward to have the great iron doors opened. Fear firmly etched on his face, the boy scampered behind the heavy footsteps, almost tripping in his haste.

The lord gritted his teeth in annoyance, but did not say anything until the guards had once again closed the iron door on the raised voices that discussed his departure. Out of sight, the lord spun around, causing the young boy to squeak in fright and almost topple backwards in his haste to get out of the way.

"Leave me here, Everius." the lord ordered in a soft tone.

"M-my lord?" The man looked at the terror and confusion swirling freely on the face before him and bit down an impatient response.

"Go to your quarters. I will ring for you when you are needed once again." Relief washed over the boy's features as he gave a short bow and hurried off, glad for the reprieve. The lord watched the young boy's head disappear around the far corner with an almost pensive air before continuing along his way. He walked softly down the familiar stone steps at the far end of the great hallway, ears straining for any sound of unwanted footsteps.

This part of the castle was forbidden to most, open only to those who knew the secrets passed down by blood. The stone walls he passed were covered by a thick layer of grime and dirt, for no maid had had the courage to come down to this dark place where shadows whispered in their ears. The light of the castle above had been gradually disappearing as he progressed further down the ancient staircase. The lord did not mind, for he had been down this path so many times he could traverse it with no aid at all. He even preferred the darkness, for under its cover, he could pretend he was what he had always wanted to be.

Suddenly a crumbled part of the stair caused the lord to lose his footing and jar his arm painfully as he steadied himself. Wincing in pain, he reluctantly wiped his hands on his pocket and pulled out his wand. "Lumos."

A dull orange glow flashed from his wand before settling into a soft yellow that stretched metres in front of him. The soft rays slowly revealed ancient drawings carved painstakingly into the walls. Ancient armies were depicted here, wars, conquests, the monstrous faces of forgotten magical beasts. The lord stared around him, remembering the first time he had looked upon the walls. He had been following his father one day, curious to know where he went, and had become lost in the darkness. These faces had frightened him- and still did. The eyes of the beasts followed his every footstep and seemed to have lives of their own. _Stay away_. They seemed to whisper. _You are not welcome here_.

The lord shook away his memories and hurried further down before stepping onto a landing, a solid black wall blocking his way. There was no handle, only an intricately carved eagle reaching for its prey, standing out on the gleaming ebony surface. The lord looked closer, noticing with a bitter smile the small snake that coiled, almost invisible around the body of the bird. "Who is the prey here?" he murmured aloud, shuddering as his voice echoed further down. Straightening his shoulders he looked at the symbol again.

"_Maledictus_."

He lay his palm against the cool door and suddenly he felt a sharp surge of energy flow from the contact. Something raced up his arm, along his neck and plunged deep into his memories, searching frantically in his mind. On and on he felt that queer rush, vague memories flying past his mind. Deeper and deeper it went. Suddenly, it focused in on one piece of rational thought that lay at the very core of his being. He heard it echo around him in a familiar childish voice. _I am Draco Priam Aquila Malfoy. **Malfoy**_.

Seemingly satisfied, the energy dissipated with as much speed as it had come. The lord gingerly flexed his fingers as the door disappeared and a huge cavern opened before him. "Nox." he whispered, eyes adjusting to the soft green light emitted by the clusters of crystals that lined the room. Rows upon rows of curious statues stared at him through the darkness. The faces becoming progressively larger and more grotesque, a final attempt by each forgotten Malfoy to outdo his legacy.

An ancient archway stood over the path, crowned by a delicate carving of a watchful Bennu, that was poised in mid-flight. A weathering inscriptions framed its base.

_Cui Optio Facta Est_

Draco smiled to himself bitterly. The Malfoy name was a curse, a secret that would one day trap him here like it had trapped all his ancestors before him. Covering an expanse the size of a Quidditch pitch, the ceiling was littered with stars- a mirror of the real sky outside. Draco walked towards a row of lifeless figures whose features had not worn away, stopping by the one at the very end of the row. He stared into the sharp eyes of a giant hawk that seemed to look straight through him and see his bitterness. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding and knelt at its base.

"Here I am again, Father."

Draco reached out and traced the engraved name on the pedestal the jade hawk rested on.

_Lord Lucius Cyriacus Lysander Malfoy_

_The Twelfth Lord_

He stared at it, suddenly unsure of what to say. Even in death, Lucius maintained an aura of power and mystery that awed his son into submission. The entire cavern seemed to be listening to him so that he felt like he was being watched yet again.

"All is as it should be." He said quickly- as if to avoid the judging silence of the room. "The people are crying out, but my spies have revealed a new hope." His face darkened.

"Their hero is coming."

The room seemed to mock his bitterness – perhaps because it had heard it before in different times. It had become an echo that had not died out over the centuries. Draco shuddered. He did not want to continue this façade. Did not want to take his place in line behind row of dead lords that rested here. He wanted to leave. He wanted to be somewhere where he was not compelled to act. He wanted… the only thing that was denied him.

Again he felt as if the hawk had given him a piercing look, which was impossible really, he told himself, unable to rid himself of the unsettled feeling as the precious jewels set as eyes glinted as if alive. They seemed to accuse him of weakness, of not being able to stand through a trial each of his ancestors had to suffer. Draco hung his head, ashamed, before raising it again in anger.

"I did not break my promise." He glared at the stone. "But one day, I _will_ stop this act."

The epigraph stared back at his retreating figure, frozen in silent reply.

_Illusion Became The Man._

A/N:

Bit of a change from innocent Draco isn't he? grins Don't worry, he'll be back in the next chapter.

_Cui Optio Facta Est- '_For whom the choice was made'. Translation by cyropi

_Maledictus- _'the cursed one' or similar. Translation by BlaiseW


	3. Climbing Towers is Proven to be a Risky

**_Part Three: In Which Climbing Towers is Proven to be a Risky Business._**

The young lord woke early the next morning, before the birds could sing the sun out of its slumber, before any other set of eyes in the castle had opened. He dressed himself carefully in his best clothes and could not help a broad smile from creeping across his face as he gazed in a huge gilded mirror. To you, Reader, he may have appeared slightly ridiculous, in boots too big for him, belt too large, waistcoat too embellished for one as small as he, but to his eyes he looked every inch a fabled prince. What care had he that his toes would soon drag, or his waist would soon ache? He was light-hearted at that moment for he was both very much alive (here he stopped and gave a grateful blessing to the old Gypsy) and he was soon to set out on his quest.

His young mind quivered with excitement. What would his first Lady look like? Would she be small? Frail? Delicate? She would be quiet and demure, he decided, for princesses always were and she would need his help for _everything_ and call him Sir Knight and smile rosily at him, with long raven hair and smooth unblemished skin.

He set about practising a suave greeting to his lady love, finally deciding to use an embellished bow and a careful flick of his snowy hair that could usually melt the most hardened old maid into submission. Satisfied, he lay in front of the double glass windows of his chambers and watched the golden fingers creeping across his father's lands, eyes closing in a dreamless sleep long before it had touched the distant dark line of fir trees marking the forest.

And so his young nurse found him, exclaiming loudly at the sight of her sleeping charge sprawled, fully dressed, on the floor.

"My little dragon!" his mother exclaimed, smoothing down his ruffled hair as he was brought to her. "What is the reason for this!" He looked up gravely at his beautiful mother, "Please do not ask me that, mama." he asked. "For I am on the secret quest I told you of, and I have taken an oath of secrecy."

The queen smiled to herself and possessing that gift of practicality innate to all mothers, bade the young lord to mind that no dirt should ruin his clothes. The young lord was perhaps deafened by his imagination, for he hardly heard this reminder as he ran gaily to his lessons. The old Latin tutor with his mythical tales that were all _true_, was suddenly agonisingly slow in speech and had the young lord squirming in his seat with his mind elsewhere, but finally that glorious hour arrived where those mundane tenses could be forgotten and he could run outside.

As he neared the grove of trees, he slowed down his pace, for princes were never out of breath or sweaty. As he paused by a giant oak to catch his breath, he heard something that brought a smile to his face. A sweet happy melody hung on the breeze, sung by what was surely an angel. The young lord quickly straightened his boots, hoisted up his belt and marched straight backed into the clearing.

The music died away immediately as the young lord began his embellished introduction.

"Fear not, good lady, for I am Draco Malfoy; son of Lucius, Lord of these lands and I come to keep true my promise to thy mother and defend you.." he slowly stretched back up and flicked his hair out of his eyes with all the flourish he had practised, and stared. He blinked.

A few curious squirrels stared back at him, before scurrying about a clearing that was unhappily and, for the young lord, heartbreakingly devoid of admiring princesses.

He stood that way for several moments, blinking in surprise and burning with embarrassment. A slight relief washed over the boy, for at least his foolishness had not been witnessed. His relief was soon vanished, however, as a giggle broke the silence behind him, a wretched sound that made his stomach find itself firmly lodged somewhere near the region of his feet.

Cheeks burning, the lord turned around quickly before staring in confusion. There was nothing there. Another giggle broke the silence, coming from somewhere above him. Looking up at the trees, he was met with the sight of two impish brown eyes brimming with poorly contained laughter.

"Who are you!" he exclaimed, recovering from his shock.

"Why, your 'good lady' o' course." grinned back the face. The boy flushed red again, before scowling back at the stranger.

"Well how did you get up there!"

"Flew, o' course."

"Psssht."

"What are you 'psshting' at me for, boy?"

The young lord bristled. Never had _anyone_ addressed him in this way, certainly not a mere peasant girl.

"You tell a falsehood, _girl_. No one can _fly_."

"Says who?" she glared at him. This stumped him. No one had ever _said_ you couldn't. It was just… just… highly _improper_ to be able to do so; and therefore something a Gypsy may very well be able to do. The young lord decided to let this question pass, lest she prove him wrong.

"And what happened to '_good lady_'?' she continued, sarcastically. The lord glowered back at her, before fixing her with his best look of utter disdain.

"You are no _lady_." He scoffed. There was an indignant huff above him.

"I am too a lady!"

"_Ladies _never climb up _trees_."

"Oh, you just wait!" There was a loud rustling above him as the young girl began turning around on the branch. The lord looked on with increasing alarm, for years of tutelage were telling him that assistance was demanded of him. She was, after all, only a slip of a girl, and it was an awfully long way to fall. With a sigh, he rolled back his sleeves and began to pull himself up.

"Do not fear!" he called out, "I am coming to help you down." She threw him a fierce glare, before continuing to inch along the branch.

The lord continued his slow climb, cursing grubby haired peasant girls whenever he accidently grasped a thorn. There was suddenly a loud THUMP behind him, and when he looked up to see what was wrong, he almost let go and fell out of the tree himself. There was no one there! With a startled yell, he clutched the nearest branch.

"I'm down here, silly." Her voice! A rush of relief ran through the boy, soon replaced by annoyance as he looked down. The girl was standing with her hands on her hips, and exasperated look on her face. He looked down to where she stood and suddenly came to the realisation that things looked a lot different going down, than they did going up.

"What are you waiting for? Come down!" The lord closed his eyes, before risking another glance down. His stomach fluttered violently, seeming to wholeheartedly agree with the conclusion he had just made.

"I- I can't." He closed his eyes and waited for another girlish giggle. It didn't come.

"Why not?" He was _not, _he told himself, going to answer that question. A small voice in his mind told him that he could either ask her for help, or stay perched in this tree until he was missed, with only his pride for company.

"Do you want some help, then?" Being stuck in a tree was starting to look very attractive. After all, if a monkey could do it, then _he_ certainly could. He began to look around him, in the vain hope that a fruit would magically appear within arms reach. The girl was looking up at him curiously, a look of understanding crossing her face.

"Here, climb onto me shoulders"

"No!" There was a point when one _had_ to draw the line.

"Why not!"

"One does not _step _on a _girl_." He explained, with the air of one explaining something simple to a child. The girl looked affronted before she rolled her eyes and walked close to the tree.

"How about a _lady_? Now hurry up."

His hands had begun to hurt from clutching the rough bark. Closing his eyes, he carefully began lowering himself down, stretching out his leg until it landed on a small shoulder.

He was mortified. He was being _rescued_. By a _girl_.

The moment he had both feet planted safely on the ground, he stalked away to the old log he had rested on the previous day. He ignored the surprised look that came over the young girl's face and sat with his back turned, scowling as if the trees in front of his were responsible for his severely battered pride.

"Well thank ye, my lady, for saving me life," came a sarcastic voice behind him, before it continued in a higher pitch, "Oh twas nothing, o' course, but I'm glad you were polite enough t'say so."

The young lord felt his cheeks flare up once again and decided the best course of action was to glower and scowl harder at the trees. Suddenly, the log shook violently as a small body jumped up and sat next to him. She looked at him, at the trees and then back at him. The lord scowled again when he realised that his ruse of ignoring her was a miserable failure.

"Go away." He muttered, gritting his teeth.

"No, I don't think I will." The lord blinked in surprise before his feature settled back into a scowl that was in danger of sticking.

"You are… you are... an _insufferable girl_." He spat out, expecting her to finally go away and leave him in peace. She, however, had other plans.

"Yes, I s'pose I am. And don't call me girl, boy." She jumped down, turning to him with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Do not fear!" she began with a grin, "For I am Ginevra, a gypsy and rescuer of spoilt little boys." And giggling, she swept into a bow that mirrored his previous one. "But you can call me Ginny."

A flush came over the lord's cheeks as he realised she was mocking him, and he looked down at his lap. The girl- no, _Ginny,_ laughed and sat back up next to him, nudging him with her knee.

"Oh don't be like that." She said with a smile, "if it makes you feel better, I won't tell anyone."

The boy looked up and smiled shyly back, finally looking at the girl beside him. Her hair was not brown, as he had first thought. It was a dark red, framing a small delicate face. She was at least a couple of inches shorter than him, wearing a dark green dress which came to her knees and was covered in tears and dirt. She was swinging her legs now, showing knobbly knees and small worn shoes. She was definitely not a lady, he thought to himself, he doubted very much that she would call him 'Sir Knight' and he was surprised to find that he wasn't disappointed by it.

"What would you like to do now?" he asked.

"I think," she replied, suddenly jumping off the log, grabbing a stray stick and crouching en guard, "today, I'll be a pirate!"

For a moment the young lord was shocked, a voice in his head telling him that it wasn't _proper_ to want to be a pirate, but another voice whispered that apart from Father's friend McNair, only pirates got to wear eye patches and he'd _always_ wanted to wear one.

With a grin, he jumped off the log.

And so the afternoon was spent. Pirates ran aboard ships of leaves, ruthlessly attacking knights who guarded ancient trees that hid precious fairies. Long lost Indians perched atop spirit mountains, taunting a most vicious monster with such veracity, that said monster oft froze in place, eyes wide in shock as it remembered that the Indian was, in fact, a girl. They played until the sky was a dark red and the shadows began to grow, slowly creeping up on a grave fight between a one-eyed, one handed, child-eating fortune teller and a noble horse, who was really a child she had transformed and who had the unfortunate destiny of being her dinner.

Suddenly the fortune teller stopped, looking up at the sky in surprise.

"It's already dark!" she cried, brushing herself down. The horse looked up in dismay.

"Must you go already?"

"Yes. Or me mam will be worried." Relatively clean, the teller looked at the horse, who smiled back, fight long forgotten.

"Goodbye Draco." She smiled again and was gone, running past the trees. The horse started, moving forward.

"Will I see you tomorrow!" he called anxiously, straining to see her through the trees.

"Perhaps!" her voice floated back, "If I've got nothing better to do!"

The horse stopped, uncertain, before smiling broadly. He picked up his coat and slowly trudged back towards the warm halls of the manor.


End file.
